


Of Twins and their Adventures

by KatsatheGraceling



Series: Long Bondlock Prompt Fills [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom, bondlock - Fandom
Genre: I'm Not Ashamed, M/M, Q has a sister, Q is a Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 17:38:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2237715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatsatheGraceling/pseuds/KatsatheGraceling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Q has a twin sister, who's a freelance assassin (best in the world) and has no regard for self preservation. Can be Bondlock, or not. Pre-00Q and flirty fluff, please! - Jess</p><p>Or in which there is a Z to cause havoc with Q, and the Holmes brothers are very protective of their little sister.<br/>00Q banter and small Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Twins and their Adventures

Bond was tied to a chair.

Really, it wasn't that uncommon of an occurrence, as it kind of came in the job description. It was more of an annoyance than anything, if Bond was being honest.

His kidnappers didn't even have the knowledge to remove him of his earpiece or clothing before they had bound him to the chair. They had found his gun and confiscated that, but it wasn't hard to tell that they weren't the best at espionage. Amateurs, honestly.

He woke up with a throbbing head and a few bruises, but was otherwise unharmed. He didn't dare open his eyes and give away that he was awake yet, choosing to instead use his other senses to find out about his surroundings. When his head finally stopped ringing, the dead silence told him that he was alone in his prison cell.

Bond let out a slight groan as he peeled open his eyes. The light burned like a bitch.

"007?" A voice sounded in his ear.

Bond startled, and stupidly turned his head towards the noise before he realised that the sound was coming from his earpiece.

"Are you alright?" Q asked.

"I do hope you're not actually worrying about me, Q," Bond said, his voice groggy from disuse. He spoke quietly. "There's no need to get your panties in a twist, boffin. I'm fine."

Q seemed unperturbed with Bond's teasing. "007, you are forbidden from ever giving me a heart attack like that again. On your next mission, I am sending you with a banana and an unsharpened pencil." Bond grinned, even though the movement made his head feel as if it were about to burst. "Now, tell us where you are so I can send a retrieval team."

Bond's assignment had been in Russia; a supposedly simple task of retrieving some incriminating photographs from the wrong hands before they reached the _very_ wrong hands. The mission was meant to be quick and quiet, but then, when did things ever go the right way for Bond?

"Don't you have a tracker in me or something? I have no idea where I am." That wasn't entirely true. The last thing he remembered was exiting the suite of his hotel to do out for dinner. The blow to the back of the head had come out of nowhere, but he was fairly certain that he wasn't unconscious long enough to have been moved out of Russia.

Q growled, "You turned it off, remember? Something about not liking your exact whereabouts known at all times."

Bond closed his eyes in frustration. Admittedly, it wasn't the smartest thing to do, but hindsight was always 20/20.

"One of these days you will learn that I do things for a reason, agent," Q said, sounding put out. "Luckily for you, I anticipated this. There's a back up tracker in your bicep, but it has to be activated."

"I'm a little tied up at the moment," Bond said, testing the ropes. The kidnappers might have been inexperienced, but at least one of them could tie a good knot. Dammit.

"I'll need to turn it on remotely, then," Q said. "And once I do yo- Oh! You're in Russia."

Bond gritted his teeth against snapping at his Quartermaster. "Obviously, Q. Is that a problem?" Bond heard footsteps approaching from outside his cell. "And can we speed it up a little? Despite what most think, I don't like being tortured." Amateurs were always bad, because they weren't quite sure when enough was enough. They always ended up doing too much and killing the subject much too quickly.

Although, if Q couldn't get him out in time, that might be a good thing.

Q seemed nervous, "The team will take a while to get there, Bond, you are kind of far away."

"Then you better think of something fast, because I'm in a modern version of a dungeon."

Q paused, as if contemplating something, then said, "I have a solution, just hold off for a little while."

“I'm not too sure how much I trust you right now, Q,” Bond whispered angrily.

“Trust, Agent, is a wonderful thing,” Q replied.

Bond didn't answer.

"Ah, you are awake." A masculine voice said. Three men walked into the room, two of them falling back to flank the door. "I was beginning to wonder if Dmitri here had hit you too hard." The man gestured to Dmitri, who was standing to the left of the door. Dmitri grinned.

The man stood patiently in front of Bond, his hands clasped behind his back. "My name is Aleksandr."

Bond waited for the inevitable questions. Really, there was nothing new in interrogations.

"Who are you and why were you tailing my men?" Aleksandr asked. 

This was how most interrogations began. The polite and simple questioning, then they'd pull out a weapon and show it off. Then they'd ask a little harder, and when Bond still didn't give up whatever information they wanted, they'd begin to use the weapon.

Usually Bond would be out of his restraints by then, but this didn't seem like one of these times.

 _'You better hurry the hell up, Q.'_ Bond thought.

The man glared at Bond's lack of participation. "I said, who are you?"

Bond replied with an easy smile, "No one."

Aleksandr regarded him warily, "A British friend then? Tell me, what would your country want with my group?"

Bond shrugged. "I wouldn't know," he lied, "I was just passing through."

"You were following my men," Aleksandr corrected. "Why?"

There was only silence for an answer.

The Russian seemed repentant. "I was hoping we would not have to do it this way." Aleksandr snapped his fingers, and one of the men guarding the door - Dmitri - stepped forward to hand him a knife.

Bond sighed.

"You see this, yes?" he asked. "I would hate to have to use it on you."

"I'm sure you would," Bond replied sarcastically.

The man's pleasant smile dropped from his face. He opened his mouth to respond, but suddenly glared, eyes fixed on Bond's ear,

_Fuck._

He swiftly reached out and snatched the earpiece from Bond's ear, cursing in Russian. "Who are you working for?!" he yelled.

Bond glared, and Aleksandr threw the small device to the ground and stepped on it. He grabbed a fistful of Bond's hair and pulled, causing the blond to hiss in pain. The point of a knife against Bond's throat made him stop struggling, and he glowered at the man holding it there.

"Tell me," Aleksandr said, "and I will make your death quick."

"To be honest, I'd rather not die at all," Bond said.

The Russian smiled. "I am afraid that's not an option." He pressed the blade harder against Bond's neck, making him wince. A drop of blood fell from the small puncture.

"I'll have you know that I don't like staying dead. Tried it before. Not really my thing."

Aleksandr backed off, and grabbed a smaller knife from a table. A scalpel, really.

Double fuck.

Aleksandr ripped open Bond's dress shirt, and held the blade to his chest. "Last chance, Mr. British. Who do you work for?" He pressed in slightly, and another drop of blood welled up at the puncture.

"Piss off," Bond said.

The man glowered, and began to sink the scalpel into the meat of Bond's chest. Bond hissed.

"I do so hate stubbornness," Aleksandr said with a sigh.

Bond grinned, despite the pain. He was about to respond with a cheerful _'fuck you',_ but the door slammed open before he had a chance.

Both men guarding the door turned and aimed their guns at the intruder, but the person didn't so much as flinch.

"What are you doing?" A female Russian voice asked, sounding outraged. She walked confidently into the room, pushing past the two men. "I was told I would get to be the first to interrogate the prisoner," she carried on, and strode up to Aleksandr. 

Bond got a good look at the woman as she glared at Aleksandr. Her chocolate brown curls were pinned away from her face, and her green eyes were sharp and vicious. She was wearing a singlet, denim jeans, and combat boots, and all in all looked dangerous, despite her small frame.

Aleksandr returned the glare, and demanded in Russian, "And who the hell are you?"

Bond was suddenly glad Alec had decided to teach Bond quite a bit of Russian in his spare time.

The woman - if you could call her that, as she looked barely twenty - placed her hands on her hips in a manner that was strangely threatening. "Are you so far down on the chain of command to not recognise me?" She laughed, "How sad."

She chose that moment to look at Bond, her intelligent eyes scanning him from head to toe, lingering on the cuts on his head and chest. Her eyes narrowed.

"I have never heard-"

"Doesn't matter now," she interrupted, walking over to the table. "I'll be taking over from here. How far have you gotten?"

Aleksandr still regarded her cautiously, but stepped back. "He wouldn't even give us his name."

The woman smiled, and picked up a knife from the selection. "That will not be necessary. I know exactly who he is." She turned to Bond and spoke in English, "Isn't that right, Mr. Bond?"

Bond froze, and the woman grinned. "Ah, so it is you. Good." She circled around him, pausing behind him to grab his hair and yank his head back. When she hissed quietly into his ear, her voice was definitely _not_ Russian. An English voice spoke quickly, "You better be a damn good actor, Bond, because I don't feel like dying today." 

Bond felt the butt of a knife being placed into his hands, and then she was gone, circling around in front of him, her face not giving anything away. 

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Bond immediately began to saw at his bonds with the knife he was given.

When the woman spoke again, her accent was decidedly Russian again. “I find myself, curious, Mr. Bond, about-” She cut off suddenly, and glared at the men in the room. “Which one of you idiots tied him up?”

Dmitri raised his hand, and the woman rolled her eyes. “You did not remove his shoes.”

Aleksandr stepped forward, miffed. “Of course we didn't take off his shoes. Why the hell would we do that?”

As she knelt down and began to take off Bond's dress shoes, Bond noticed a small flick of her hand. The zip tie that was tethering his ankles to the chair came clean off in a sleight of hand. Bond glanced up at his captors to see if they had noticed, but none of them had.

The woman hit the heel of his shoe, and a blade popped out of the back. It hardly came in handy, as Bond was more of a fists and guns type of guy, but Q had insisted on installing it in all of his shoes.

“Just as I thought,” she said, giving Bond a wink when her back was turned to the other men. She reached down and did the same to the other shoe, also unattaching Bond from the chair with quick fingers.

Dmitri glared at the woman. He said angrily in Russian, “How was I supposed to know that the man would have a knife hidden in his boot?”

The woman only huffed at their stupidity, and glanced at Bond. “Ready?” she asked.

Bond nodded at the same time Aleksandr demanded, “Ready for what?”

The woman ignored him, and said, “Oh, thank god,” before turning and shooting Aleksandr point blank between the eyes.

Bond leapt up and caught the gun she tossed his way, and they both took out the remaining two men before they could blink.

The woman spoke quickly, her voice English again, “We have approximately fifty-three seconds before more men come barreling through the hallway. I suggest we get a move on.”

She began to stride to the door, stepping over Aleksandr body as she went, but Bond stopped her. “Hang on, how do I know I can trust you?” he asked.

She grinned at him, and said, “Trust, Agent, is a wonderful thing.”

Bond froze. “You-”

“We should leave as soon as possible, Commander.” She cut him off, and opened the door. “Because I am getting my arse out of here, with or without you.”

Bond had no choice but to follow her through the maze of halls, occasionally shooting at those who were following them. She seemed to know the layout of the building, and soon they were out in the cold snow, away from the building.

He turned to thank her, but stopped short when he saw that she was pressing her hands against a bullet would to her thigh. She sat down, grimacing.

“Shit,” Bond said, and ripped his already ruined shirt to tie it around her leg.

“It's nothing too bad,” she shooed away his helping hands. “Just a nick.”

They both knew she was lying by the amount of blood flowing from the wound, but neither of them mentioned it.

“My team should be here in a few,” Bond said, trying to reassure her.

But apparently that was the wrong thing to say, as the girl suddenly got deathly pale and stumbled away from him.

“No, I can't,” she stuttered, and was nearly trying to crawl away. Bond caught her gently around the waist and pulled her back, ignoring her weak sounds of protest.

The sound of a helicopter's blades beating nearby made them both look upwards, before the girl broke into a painful sprint away from Bond.

It took Bond only two seconds to catch her, and he held her in his arms as she clawed at him. 

“Let me go!” she yelled, but the sound was far less threatening than it would have been.

The girl's struggles were losing their strength, and Bond lifted his hand to signal to the helicopter.

“No, no, no,” she chanted, but her legs gave out.

By the time the helicopter had landed, she had already passed out from blood loss. The medic on the helicopter had stabilised her, and they were now in transit to MI6.

* * *          * * *          * * *

When the girl woke up sometime later, handcuffed to a hospital bed, the first words out of her mouth were, “I demand to speak to your Quartermaster.” 

* * *          * * *          * * *

“So who is she?” Bond asked, standing with M in the observation room. They watched through the one way glass as the girl paced back and forth in the small interrogation room. She had a slight limp that would fade in about a week, but was otherwise unharmed.

Bond continued, “And why did she demand to see Q?”

M sighed, “Her name is _le perroquet,_ and she is one of the world's top assassins.”

“The parrot?” Bond asked.

“So it seems,” M replied. “And I haven't decided if I'm going to let Q speak with her yet. She's dangerous.”

“She saved my life,” Bond said, although it bruised his ego slightly to admit it.

The older man nodded, “Yes, and the question is: why? No offence, Bond, but you're on a lot of people's shit lists. I would have expected a top assassin to kill you, not save you.”

“And what's Q got to do with it?” Bond asked.

M was about to respond when a voice spoke from behind them, “Everything.”

Both men turned to see Q standing in the doorway, looking nervous. “007, good to see you, and M,” Q nodded in greeting. “If you don't mind, sir, I'd like to go in now.” He gestured to the window, where the girl was still pacing.

“Q, I can't let you in the same room as an unbound assassin,” M said.

Q shook his head, “She won't hurt me.”

“Let me come with you,” Bond said, but Q held his hand to stop him.

“I'll be fine, I promise,” he said. 

M eyed him for a moment more before nodding slowly. “But, at any sign of distress, I'm sending Bond in after you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Q said, and hurried into the room.

The girl turned at the sound of the door opening, and her eyes widened when she saw Q. She broke into a sprint towards him, but before M could sound the alarm, Q opened his arms and the girl leapt into them, wrapping her arms and legs tightly around his body.

To everyone's surprise, Q laughed, “I thought I told you not to get shot, Z.” he teased.

The girl, Z, laughed as well. “Excuse me, but I was a little busy extracting someone – per your request – from a terrorist cell. I wasn't thinking about the bullets.”

“Idiot,” Q said fondly, and set her back on the ground. He ruffled her hair, causing her to giggle and snatch his glasses off his face.

She danced out of his reach, laughing merrily as he squinted and chased after her.

In the observation room, both Bond's and M's jaws had hit the floor. M reached over to turn on the intercom, and said tensely, “Q, I need to speak to you in my office immediately.”

The pair in the interrogation room sobered, and glanced at the glass. “You better go,” Z's voice was soft, and she gently set Q's glasses back on his nose.

Q smiled wanly, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Love you,” he whispered.

“Love you too,” she murmured, and watched as he left the room. She returned to pacing.

Q sat in M's office, twiddling his thumbs as M sat behind his desk, staring at him warily. Bond did the same, and Q found himself twitching under the blond's intense gaze.

M cleared his throat. “How do you know her?” M was never one to beat around the bush.

Well neither was Q. “My twin.”

Bond's brows lifted, and M raised his hand to rub at his forehead. “Q,” M began, but Q cut him off.

“I won't apologise for what I did, sir. The team wasn't going to make it to Bond in time, and I knew she was in the area. I contacted her.”

M closed his eyes. “You do realise that your _sister_ is a highly trained killer, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that by making contact with her, you've compromised your position as Quartermaster, correct.”

Q protested, “Z wouldn't do anything, sir. She hasn't-”

“And how the bloody hell am I supposed to know that?” M hissed, “All I've got to go on is that the Quartermaster of MI6 – a man who knows entirely too much about the nation's security – has a sister that is a criminal!”

Q's eyes blazed. “She has never once taken a hit against England and her allies.”

“She saved my life,” Bond said quietly. “She didn't even know me, but she did it because Q asked.”

“That proves nothing!” M roared, furious.

Q steeled himself with a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice was a deadly calm. “When Roslyn – that's Z by the way. She got the name _le perroquet,_ from our older brother. He wanted to be a pirate, and I would be his first mate. Roz wanted to play too, and Sherlock told her she could be his parrot – as every respectable pirate has a parrot.” 

Q's eyes were far away. “Anyway, when Roz and I were eleven, I was diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukaemia– AML for short.” Q heard both men suck in a breath. “The five year survival rate is only about 22%. Then, when I had to go through chemo and lost all my hair, I was devastated.” He let out a short laugh, “When Roslyn found me crying over my lost hair, she locked herself inside our parents' bathroom and shaved all of her beautiful curls off. Later that day, she drugged Mycroft and Sherlock and shaved their heads as well. They were furious, of course, as was Mummy, but no one could stay angry for long when they saw how happy I was. Our Christmas cards that year looked rather comical, I assure you.”

The young Quartermaster gazed evenly at the men in front of him. “Gentlemen, my sister means the world to me. She's loyal to a fault, and I trust her with my life.”

M held the bespectacled man's eyes, a new-found respect blooming in his chest. “Very well, Q. I trust your judgement. She is free to go.”

Q nodded gratefully, “Thank you, sir.”

As Q began to head to the door, M called after him, “Offer her a job, while you're at it. God knows we could use more agents like her.”

Q grinned, and nodded. Bond rose and followed him out.

“Yes, 007?” Q asked.

“It's James, and thank you.”

Q paused and looked at Bond quizzically. “What for?”

“You risked your job to call your sister and save my life. Any other agent would have just cut their losses.”

Q smiled, and retorted, “Well, I'm not any other agent, am I?”

Bond gazed at Q, his eyes scanning the younger man from head to toe. “No, you're most certainly not.” There was definitely more than meets the eye when it came to his Quartermaster.

Before Q could respond, Bond suddenly said, “I guess I owe your sister an apology for arresting her, don't I.”

The door to the interrogation room opened, and Z stood there with a wide smile on her face.

“Don't worry,” she said, “I know exactly how you can make it up to me.”

* * *          * * *          * * *

“And how, exactly, is breaking and entering making it up to you?” Bond asked.

Bond stood on watch while Z knelt in front of a door to an office in the Diogenes Club. “It's not breaking and entering if you have keys,” she said.

“You don't have keys, that's a lock picking set.”

The girl shrugged, “Close enough.”

Bond snorted, and Z had the door open in three seconds flat. “Whose office is this?”

“Just someone who pissed me off. He should be out for a while.”

“Right,” Bond glanced around the posh office. “What are we here to take?”

“Oh, we're not going to take anything. You stand guard and I'm going to do some minor rearranging.”

She walked over to the bookshelf, and began to reorganise the novels. “Are you shelving them based on colour?” Bond asked, incredulous.

“Yes. They are currently ordered by author, and then year. The owner of this office happens to be very OCD.”

“You're devious,” Bond remarked, and she grinned at him.

It was silent for a while while Z was busy moving things around. She took the ink out pf all the pens, and swapped one entire drawer in the desk out for another. 

“So, what was Q like when you were kids,” Bond asked, trying to seem nonchalant. Z looked up from where she was tilting all of the paintings ever so slightly, and grinned knowingly.

“We lived in a large house, a mansion really. Mycroft was the eldest, and he usually was busy being the man of the house. He watched over all of us, made sure we were fed and all that. Because Q and I are twins, Sherlock is technically the middle child. He caused hell on a daily basis – trying desperately to get Mummy and Daddy's attention.” 

She rotated a small set of files to where it was no longer parallel to the wall. “Q and I were on our own, generally. We were – still are, actually – so close. He was a lot like he is today. He got his first computer when he was seven, and has been hooked ever since. Does this coffee table look like it has a front?”

Bond walked over and gazed at the small table. “No,” he said. Both sides appeared identical.

“Excellent. Help me turn it around to face the other way.”

Bond did as she asked, and she continued talking. “Q always loved to tinker. He would take apart father's watch when it had broken and then put it back together in under a minute. The blasted thing worked fine.”

“He's a genius,” Bond agreed.

She pulled out a small bag of sugar, and sprinkled it over his chair and couch. She even went as far as to shift the rug on the floor exactly one inch to the right. “We all are really,” she said, shrugging. “Mycroft, he's good with politics. He sees people and knows how he can use them to his advantage, how they work and why. His deduction skills extend to Sherlock, who excels in biology and chemistry. Sherlock looks at you and sees your life – but he's bored by it. Few things actually hold Sherlock's interest for long.”

Z noticed that all the pens in the cup holder were face down, and started to flip a few over.

“Q is incredible at engineering and technology. He sees the world as machines and their parts. In the five seconds that he lays eyes on a new gadget, he has taken it apart in his head and rebuilt it twice, with the end result being at least three times more efficient than the actual appliance.”

Bond was intrigued. “And you?” he asked.

“I'm a maths geek. I see the world in formulas and systems. That's how I'm such a good shot; all the variables – the wind, lighting, movement, age of the gun – are immediately accounted for in my head. It's all just one equation. Same goes with hand-to-hand combat. For example, you have an old wound on your right shoulder from a bullet. I know the exact amount of force to use if I hit it for different levels of pain.”

“Incredible,” Bond said. “Did you grow up wanting to kill people?”

She laughed. “No. As I'm sure Q told you, Sherlock wanted to be a pirate when he was little. Q wanted to be an astronaut. I wanted to be a magician.” Bond remembered her sleights of hand when she had helped him escape, and nodded.

“And Mycroft,” A grin appeared on her face. “Mycroft wanted to be a-”

“Finish that sentence and I'll have you shot,” a cool voice sounded from the doorway. 

Both heads snapped to the sound. Bond's eyes widened when he saw a tall man with red hair standing in a three piece suit. The man screamed of _posh_ , and was currently glaring at the two of them.

Bond had never been more frightened in his life.

The man glanced around the room, and his eyes narrowed dangerously. His voice was a deadly calm, “Roslyn Annabelle Holmes, what the bloody hell have you done to my office?”

Bond was surprised that the man used her real name, but Z didn't seem disturbed. She walked right up to the redhead and kissed him on the cheek.

“It's payback, Mickey. Did you think I wouldn't notice that you bugged my phone?”

The man didn't look embarrassed at being caught at all. He straightened up and looked down his nose at Z. “You know I was just looking out for you,” he said, swinging his umbrella back and forth.

Z grinned, “I know, which is why I didn’t do this to your bedroom. Come along, 007,” she called, and strode out the door, knocking a lamp shade off balance on her way.

The posh bloke fixed his eyes on Bond, and then surprisingly held his hand out for Bond to shake.

“It's nice to meet the man that my little sister saved,” he said. “My name is Mycroft Holmes.” 

“Oh, shit.”

The man – Z and Q's bloody older brother – gave Bond a wolfish politician's smile, and said, “What exactly is your relationship with Quentin Holmes?”

* * *          * * *          * * *

John Watson immediately drew his gun when he and Sherlock got home. He'd recognise the signs of a subtle break-in anywhere.

“John,” Sherlock began, but John held up a hand to silence him.

He opened the door to the flat, not noticing anything out of order. A small noise came from the couple's bedroom, and John immediately started towards it, gun leading.

“John,” Sherlock said again, “I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't shoot.”

John ignored him, and gently pushed open the bedroom door. 

There, sprawled out across the bed in an ungodly contorted position, was a girl. She had dark brown curls, and was breathing softly into the soft duvet.

_What the hell?_

John was frozen, gun still aimed at the small figure in his and Sherlock's bed. He was about to turn and ask Sherlock for an explanation when the lump spoke.

“If you're not going to shoot me,” the girl said, her voice thick with sleep and muffled by the bed, “then go away.”

“Sherlock?” John asked helplessly, but the man only walked around him and crawled into bed with her!

“You're late,” Sherlock said.

“Piss off,” the girl mumbled.

“Will someone explain to me what the bloody hell is going on?” John hissed, watching his boyfriend snuggle against someone who broke into their flat – and used their shower, judging by her wet hair.

Sherlock's eyes slipped closed. “John, this is Roslyn Holmes. Also known as Z. Or if you're an enemy to the British nation, she's _le perroquet,_ the assassin.”

“An assassin?” John repeats.

The girl seemed to have moved to attach herself to Sherlock, wrapping her limbs around him like an octopus. She spoke, “Yes, Sherlock's sister is an assassin, and a bloody tired one. So if you could all shut up, I should be fine in an hour or so.”

John didn't want to be quiet, dammit, he had questions. “Your sister? Sherlock, you have a sister and you didn't think to tell me about her?”

The girl let out a muffled giggle, “Just wait till he tells you about his other brother.”

John cried out in outrage at the same time Sherlock hissed, “You little snitch.”

Roslyn just laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, if anyone wants to take a fill and turn it into a fully-fleshed story, just send me a head's up and I'll put a link to your story at the end of the chapter :)
> 
> Leave a prompt in the comments if you want more. Each fill will be around 5,000 words.


End file.
